Life holds no inherent meaning, no secret purpose waiting to be uncovered through trials or triumphs or even the quiet accumulation of years spent in pursuit of fleeting comforts. People cling to invented meanings because the void of existence stares back at them too coldly otherwise, so they build illusions around family bonds that promise security yet often shatter under pressure, around power that offers control but demands endless sacrifices, around love that whispers of fulfillment while hiding its inevitable betrayals. But when all the illusions are peeled away layer by layer, what remains is the raw simplicity of the world as it truly functions, where the strong extend their hands to grasp whatever they deem valuable whether it be resources or loyalty or the very lives of others, and the weak find themselves stripped of everything they hold until nothing is left but the echo of their own helplessness. There is no divine scale tipping in favor of the righteous, no hidden thread connecting events into a grand narrative that rewards patience or punishes vice, only the relentless interplay of advantage and disadvantage, where every breath drawn is a temporary victory paid for in blood or cunning or sheer endurance.
That is the only truth I have ever bothered to acknowledge fully.
I do not rebel against it with futile emotions.
I do not seek to change it through misguided ideals.
I merely observe it, calculate its patterns, and position myself within its flow.
My name is Germain Valtor.
I am the fourth child among five in House Valtor, a noble lineage elevated to the highest echelons of the empire through generations of calculated alliances and displays of unyielding strength, bearing the Emperor's personal authorization that grants us lands vast enough to encompass entire valleys and privileges that place us above even the most ambitious merchants or temple hierarchs. My father, Lord Eron Valtor, commands white essence with such mastery that flames erupt from the air at his command, coiling like obedient serpents to incinerate enemies or warm the halls during the harshest winters without ever scorching a single tapestry. My three older siblings each awakened their essence long before reaching my age, each one manifesting abilities that reinforced the family's reputation as unbreakable pillars of the noble order, with the eldest brother perceiving glimpses of future possibilities that allow him to outmaneuver rivals in court intrigues before they even make their moves, the second brother possessing strength so immense that he can shatter reinforced gates with a single blow as if they were made of brittle glass, and the third sister wielding a healing touch that knits flesh and bone together in moments turning what would be mortal injuries into minor inconveniences that barely leave a mark. Even the youngest sibling, scarcely old enough to speak in full sentences, already causes the ritual stones to pulse with faint light during the priests' preliminary examinations, hinting at yet another prodigy who will carry the Valtor name forward without faltering.
Then there is me, the one who stands apart in ways that no one in the family anticipated or desired.
The place where I used to live, the ancestral seat of House Valtor, rises like a monument to unassailable power from the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking a deep turquoise river that winds through lush valleys framed by snow-capped mountains in the distance, a structure so grand and imposing that it seems as though the very earth itself was shaped to accommodate its presence. Towers spiral upward in intricate layers of stone carved with gothic arches and pointed spires that pierce the sky, each level adorned with battlements where guards patrol day and night, their silhouettes visible against the horizon like silent sentinels guarding secrets accumulated over centuries. The central keep looms tallest of all, a massive cylindrical tower flanked by smaller ones that curve outward in symmetrical wings, creating a fortress that blends defensive might with aesthetic elegance, its walls etched with reliefs depicting past victories and essence-wielders in heroic poses. Below the main courtyard, which is laid out in a cross-shaped pattern of manicured green lawns intersected by paved paths leading to ornate entrances arched with intricate stonework, a narrow stone bridge extends across the river's chasm, connecting the castle to the mainland in a single precarious span that forces any visitor or invader to approach slowly and exposed, a design that has repelled countless assaults throughout history. Inside those walls, the halls were filled with the quiet luxury of velvet drapes and polished marble floors, chambers warmed by hearths that never smoked, and libraries stocked with tomes on essence lore and imperial politics, where I once wandered freely absorbing knowledge without the burden of emotional attachment to any of it.
Two years ago, when I had just turned six, the family assembled in that very ritual chamber deep within the castle's heart for the ceremony that was meant to confirm my place among them. The priests from the temples had arrived days earlier, their robes embroidered with symbols of the Origin of Life and carrying sealed vials of white essence harvested from the purest sources controlled by the noble houses, the liquid that accelerates growth and unlocks superior abilities for those deemed worthy by their inner strength. The chamber itself was a vaulted space lit by essence-infused lanterns that cast a steady glow without flickering, the air heavy with the scent of incense burned to invoke blessings, and the testing stones arranged in a perfect circle on the floor each one carved from rare minerals that react to the awakening of power within a person. Father presided over the event with his usual composure, mother stood beside him in her finely tailored gown that flowed like liquid silk, and my siblings observed from the sides their expressions a mixture of curiosity and expectation as though this was merely another step in the family's unbroken chain of success. The priests handed me the silver cup filled with the white essence, its surface shimmering faintly under the light, and I drank it down in one measured swallow feeling the cool viscosity coat my throat without any immediate sensation of change or revelation. Moments passed in silence as everyone waited for the stones to ignite with the telltale glow that signals acceptance, for the spark to manifest in some form unique to my nature whether it be combat prowess or strategic insight or something entirely new that would add to the Valtor's arsenal.
Nothing happened.
The stones remained inert, their surfaces as dull as common pebbles gathered from the river below the bridge.
The priests tested again, pouring a second dose and reciting additional incantations, but the result was the same absolute absence of response.
In the heavy quiet that enveloped the chamber afterward, I could sense the shift in how they regarded me not with overt disdain but with the practical detachment of people assessing a flawed investment.
Father broke the silence first, his voice steady and devoid of inflection as he addressed the priests and retainers present.
"This child has failed to awaken. The white essence does not bond with him. He is essence-dead, a vessel without the spark."
Mother's gaze lingered on me a fraction longer than usual, her fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of her sleeve, but she said nothing to contradict the verdict.
My siblings exchanged subtle glances, their relief palpable though unspoken, as if my failure somehow secured their own positions more firmly within the hierarchy.
They did not decide my fate immediately, allowing a few days for additional tests and consultations with temple experts who confirmed the diagnosis with unyielding certainty.
Father summoned me to his private study overlooking the river chasm, where the sound of water rushing far below provided a constant backdrop, and explained the reasoning in terms that left no room for negotiation or appeal.
"Your presence here will only disrupt the training of your brothers and sister, who must focus entirely on refining their essence without the distraction of a reminder of what can go wrong. And your manner of thinking, the way you observe everything with such cold distance, does not align with the unity we require in this house—it sows unease where there should be harmony."
I listened without interruption, noting the logic in his words even as I felt no particular sting from them.
They stripped me of the fine clothing that marked my status, the embroidered tunics and cloaks tailored from the best fabrics available to nobles, and dressed me in coarse rags that scratched against the skin and carried the faint odor of storage.
Servants led me to a waiting cart in the castle's lower courtyard, a simple wooden vehicle loaded with broken furniture, worn-out tools, and a couple of elderly retainers being retired from service, pulled by a pair of sturdy horses that stamped impatiently on the stone.
The voyage to the Garbage of Humans began at dawn, the cart rumbling across the narrow stone bridge that spanned the river, each step of the horses echoing against the chasm walls as the castle receded behind me like a fading memory of a life that no longer applied.
The driver, a grizzled man with blue essence that allowed him to endure long journeys without fatigue, said little as we descended the winding path from the cliffside, the air growing thicker with the scents of pine forests and distant farmlands that stretched out in the valley below.
Hours passed in slow monotony, the cart jolting over uneven roads that led through small villages where commoners paused in their labors to stare at the passing conveyance, their eyes curious but indifferent to the boy in rags seated among the debris.
I watched the landscape change gradually, from the majestic mountains framing the castle to flatter lands dotted with merchant caravans and temple outposts, calculating the distance we covered and the time it took without any sense of urgency or loss.
The elderly retainers muttered to each other about their aches and past services to the house, but I did not engage, preferring to observe how the sun shifted across the sky and cast long shadows that lengthened as evening approached.
By the time we reached the outskirts of the city where the Garbage of Humans stood, the day had turned to dusk, the cart halting before a rundown structure that seemed a world apart from the grandeur I had known.
The building loomed like a relic from a forgotten era, its timber-framed walls leaning slightly as if burdened by the weight of too many years, with black-and-white beams crossing in irregular patterns patched here and there with mismatched wood that spoke of hasty repairs done with whatever was at hand.
Upper floors jutted out over the muddy street below, creating overhangs where rain dripped steadily from sagging roofs, and small windows stared out like empty eyes with shutters hanging loose on rusted hinges.
A faded sign above the entrance bore letters that might once have proclaimed it an inn or guild hall, but now they were illegible under layers of peeling paint and grime, and the ground level showed signs of a cafe or shop long abandoned with broken glass in the frames and doors creaking on worn pivots.
The courtyard in front was a churned mess of mud and refuse, where a lone donkey stood tied to a post chewing on sparse hay, and a figure in tattered clothes wandered aimlessly near stacks of firewood piled against the wall.
The air carried the heavy stench of unwashed bodies mixed with the damp rot of decaying wood, a far cry from the clean crispness of the mountain air around House Valtor, and inside I could glimpse through the open door a dim hall crowded with shadows of people moving slowly in the gloom.
The driver unloaded me without ceremony, handing me off to a guard at the gate who grunted in acknowledgment and pushed me through the entrance.
This was my new reality, the place where the empire consigned its unwanted remnants bastards without claims, old servants without use, cripples without hope, and now a noble son without essence.
I stepped inside without resistance, noting the details of my surroundings with the same detached precision I had always employed, knowing that adaptation would come not through emotion but through careful observation and planning.
The interior of the Garbage of Humans matched the outside in every way that mattered: it was a place that had long ago stopped pretending to be anything other than what it was. The main hall stretched long and low, its ceiling supported by thick timber beams blackened by decades of smoke and damp, sagging in places where water had seeped through the roof for years without anyone bothering to repair the damage properly. Straw mats, thin and stained, covered most of the floor in uneven patches, leaving bare stone visible in the gaps where people had dragged them aside to claim slightly better spots. The air hung heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale urine that had soaked into the corners, and the faint acrid bite of smoke from a single communal hearth in the middle of the room where a few sticks burned without enthusiasm, giving off more soot than warmth. Lanterns hung from hooks—cheap oil lamps with cracked glass—casting a dim, flickering yellow that barely reached the far walls and left most of the space swallowed in shadow.
People filled the room in layers of misery. Old men and women sat or lay against the walls, their backs propped on the cold stone, eyes staring blankly at nothing while their mouths moved in silent complaints or prayers no one bothered to answer. Some had once been servants in noble houses like mine, dismissed when their hands shook too much to hold a tray or their legs refused to carry them up stairs. Others were bastards born to minor lords or merchants who could not afford the shame of acknowledgment. A few children, smaller than me, huddled in groups of two or three, sharing scraps of bread or a single thin blanket, their faces already hardened beyond their years. No one spoke loudly; voices stayed low, as if raising them might draw the attention of the guards who patrolled the perimeter with clubs hanging from their belts.
The guard who had pushed me inside gave my shoulder a shove toward the far end of the hall. "Find a spot. Don't take someone else's unless you want teeth knocked out. Food comes tomorrow morning—if you're still breathing."
He walked away without waiting for a response, his boots scraping across the stone until the sound faded into the general murmur.
I stood where he left me for several minutes, scanning the room methodically, noting the layout without hurry. The best places—closest to the hearth, farthest from the leaking roof—were already claimed by the stronger or meaner occupants: a few teenage boys with blue essence that let them heal bruises quickly, or old women who had learned to swing a walking stick like a weapon. The worst corners, near the doors where wind blew in and the floor stayed wet, belonged to the newest arrivals or the weakest. I chose neither extreme. Instead, I moved to a narrow strip of wall between two groups, far enough from the hearth that the warmth barely reached but close enough that I could feel the faint draft from a cracked window above. I lowered myself to the floor, back against the stone, knees drawn up, and waited.
No one approached me at first. Eyes flicked in my direction—curious, suspicious, indifferent—but no one spoke. That suited me. I had no need for conversation yet. Conversation was a tool for gathering information, and I already had enough to begin forming a picture of this place: hierarchy based on strength and cunning, resources scarce enough that every crumb mattered, guards who enforced order only when it suited them or when boredom made them want to hit something.
Time passed slowly. The lamps burned lower. Someone coughed wetly in the darkness, a long hacking sound that ended in a groan. A child whimpered somewhere near the center, quickly hushed by an older sibling. I did not move. I did not sleep. I simply sat and observed, letting the patterns settle into place in my mind like pieces on a board.
Eventually, a girl near my age noticed me. She had been sitting a few paces away, knees tucked under her, arms wrapped around a ragged blanket that might once have been blue but was now mostly gray from dirt. Her hair hung in tangled strings around a thin face, and her eyes—green, sharp—had the look of someone who had already learned to watch before speaking. She studied me for a long minute, then scooted closer without standing, dragging her blanket behind her like a tail.
"You're new," she said, voice quiet but direct, not whispering like some of the others. "Arrived today?"
I nodded once.
She tilted her head. "From the city? Or farther?"
"Farther," I answered. My voice came out even, without inflection. I saw no reason to lie or embellish.
She considered that. "High-born rags," she said after a moment, nodding at the torn cloth still clinging to me—the remnants of what had once been fine fabric, now mud-stained and frayed. "You don't look like the usual bastards or cripples they dump here. Noble house?"
I did not answer immediately. There was no benefit in denying it, but also no benefit in confirming it yet. I let the silence stretch.
She didn't seem bothered by it. Instead, she shifted again, closer still, until her shoulder almost touched mine. "Name's Jasmin," she said. "Been here two winters. Blue essence, weak one. Heals small cuts if I concentrate hard enough. Not enough to get out, but enough to keep from dying of infection when Harg beats someone."
Harg. I filed the name away—the guard who had shoved me inside.
She waited, then added, "You got a name?"
"Germain," I said.
She gave a small nod, as if that settled something. Then she reached into the folds of her blanket and pulled out half a piece of hard bread, already broken in two. She held one half out to me.
I looked at it. Then at her.
"Take it," she said. "You'll need it. Morning rations are small, and the bigger kids steal from the new ones. Better to eat now while you still have teeth."
I accepted the bread without thanks. Thanks were a currency I did not spend lightly. I broke off a small piece and chewed slowly, tasting the staleness and the faint mold at the edges. It was better than nothing.
Jasmin watched me eat for a moment, then spoke again. "Your house throw you out because of the essence thing?"
I nodded.
She made a soft sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Figures. Nobles don't keep failures. They keep the strong ones, the ones who make them look good. You must've drunk the white and got nothing."
I did not confirm or deny it. She didn't seem to need confirmation.
"Doesn't matter," she continued. "Here, nobody cares what you were before. You're just another mouth now. Survive long enough, maybe you get stronger. Or maybe you don't. Most don't."
She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. "But you don't look scared. Most new ones cry the first night."
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
She glanced sideways at me. "You don't cry much, do you?"
"No," I answered.
She gave the smallest of smiles, more observation than warmth. "Good. Crying gets you hit faster."
The lamps burned lower still. The hall grew quieter as people settled into uneasy sleep. Jasmin pulled her blanket tighter around herself and closed her eyes, though I could tell she wasn't fully asleep—her breathing stayed too even, too controlled.
I remained awake. The stone at my back was cold. The air smelled of rot and despair. But inside me, something remained perfectly still, perfectly patient.
I would remember that.